The Road to Travel
by Amorai
Summary: Erik thought he would lose Christine only once. Christine was an angel, yes, but she never claimed to be a phoenix...rated T for brief language.
1. Downfall

**Chapter One: Downfall**

He was older now, his thinning hair lightly tinged with gray, but his brilliant mind had forgotten nothing of that fascinating, mysterious, dangerously golden time that was Paris 1870. When he had truly lived…and afterward, part of him had died. Despite the tragic outcomes of those few months, he did not regret its passing. If he could choose to relive a period of his life all over again, it would be that one. Paris, 1870. The era of Christine Daaé.

Erik had not seen her for decades, and he knew that unless extraordinary circumstances decided to take their toll, he never would. He knew that, like him, she would have aged with the years, but he could not shake the image of Christine as he knew her in her youth: innocent, naïve, pure and beautiful in more ways than one. So many times he had tried to imagine her as she would be now: having a certain motherly look about her, smiling as he had once made her smile…but each time he failed to clearly envision her as such. To him, Christine would always be eternally young. Her long chestnut hair tumbling down in wild curls, her dark eyes, her full lips as she kissed him…twice…

He shuddered slightly. That memory made his lips tingle, filled him with wistful desire. He could never have her. Those two kisses were all that God had allowed them. Through all these years, he had missed her more than he could possibly describe.

"Christine…" the soft, almost desperate murmur slipped out unexpectedly, echoing silently along the long corridors of his manor where he stood alone. Love tinged with desolateness made her name a pleading wish. One that nobody wanted to grant him.

Looking back, he had harshly condemned himself for being what he was with her. He had done all he could to force her to choose him over Raoul, including attempted murder. A small part of him hoped that letting the both of them go had redeemed him somewhat in her eyes. In the months afterward, his deep sense of loss and crushing guilt had slowly worn away to a dull pain.

It was not probable, he knew, but he could not help hoping that her life with Raoul would be carefree and blissful, without any guilt or pain. More than anything else, he hoped that her spirit would remain free. The chalice of her resolve and inner courage was what he had fallen in love with. Her life in the opera house had been simple, and other than himself, she had never experienced the darkness of the world.

He hoped that she never would. He fervently wished her nothing but happiness in her life.

"Monsieur?"

The voice roused Erik from his musings as he turned around. Rémy, his ironed and starched butler, stood there holding a piece of folded paper in his hands.

"A letter, monsieur. For you." He held it out.

Erik frowned slightly. Any kind of communication from the outside world was a very rare occurrence. What could have possibly happened that someone would send a letter to the infamous recluse living in the countryside of France?

"Thank you, Rémy," he said, taking the paper from him. Rémy nodded and walked off.

The letter almost seemed to tingle, unnerving him. Erik stepped over the threshold of the corridor into its infinite depths, walking until he reached one of the infrequent gas lamps punctuating the darkness made by early evening as it penetrated through the paneled windows. Reaching up with his hand, he turned the gas on to its brightest, making a tall flame flare up in its glass chimney. Holding his breath, he slowly opened the letter. As he read it, he felt like he was plunging into hell all over again.

_To Erik, the former Phantom of the Opera,_

_I realize that it is either very bizarre or complete madness to contact you; I don't think either of us have forgotten that we were rivals for Christine. But in certain situations regarding her, we find ourselves rivals no longer, only mere men standing hapless before Fate. Shall I just tell you, then? _

_Christine has died._

_I hate to be the one telling you this kind of dreadful news, but I think you would agree that it is better to receive the news by letter than by reading it in a newspaper with a grossly enlarged headline. The doctors do not yet know the cause of her death. They remarked that even in death, she was so beautiful, with no wasting away of the body or soul. She died at sunset, and on her deathbed, she asked me to write you on her behalf. She conveys her farewell to you, and offers whatever last apologies you feel are necessary for the night of the Don Juan Triumphant debut. She also hopes that you have managed to find peace and happiness in your life. Although it feels out of place for me to say this, she also conveys her everlasting love and encourages you to always reach for the light, for that is where angels are._

_Since you loved her like I did, I think it is only right that you come to see her one last time. We are adversaries no longer, we shall not destroy each other over her. Of course, if you prefer not to come, that is acceptable. Do as you wish, I will not attempt to sway you one way or another._

_You loved her so. I know you did. And I hope that during the brief time you had with her, she brought you as much happiness as she has brought me._

_Respectfully,_

_The Vicomte de Chagny_

From the middle of Raoul's letter, Erik's eyes had started to dampen, misting over so quickly that he could no longer make out the words. Hurriedly wiping his eyes, he pushed on, needing to know everything, wanting to absorb every word, every last hint that spoke of Christine.

He slowly lowered the letter and ran a hand over his face, allowing himself to finally succumb to tears. If his sorrow upon the rooftop of the Opera Populaire had merely scraped the surface of all the human anguish possible, this letter had shoved him deep into its unrelenting depths with no indication to ever let him surface. All his memories of Christine, either sweet or better left forgotten, all rushed back to him, now full of nothing but pain. She was gone, she was dead, and there would never be any hope at all of seeing her again, as vital as she had been in life. He could not breathe; everything in him tumbled into the chasm of utter despair as he wept uninhibitedly. The crunch of the letter into a ball in his hands did very little to lessen his grief as he slammed his fists into the walls, letting out an untamed scream of grief and agony that echoed down the gilded corridor, not caring for Rémy's surprised reaction. _Let the entire world mourn with me,_ he thought almost savagely as he heard his cry multiplied tenfold by the echoes. _My Angel of Music has died._

_Angels don't die! They can fall from Heaven to Hell, but they never die!_

Reduced to a sobbing boy, he made his way to his quarters, clutching the crumpled remains of the letter in his hand. He slammed the door and sat down on his bed, burying his head in his hands, tears still coursing down his cheeks.

He had killed before, he admitted it. Death, when dished out to those who deserved it, was justice. He had never felt regret nor remorse for what he had done. But now, when Death had taken someone without his consent, someone he had loved passionately for all these years…he found himself grieving and completely helpless.

A glint of glass on the bedside table caught his eye. He reached for the bottle of liquor, then withdrew his hand. He never had reason to mourn for someone's death before, but he intuitively knew that if he intentionally drank himself into unconsciousness, he would wake up feeling even worse than if he had not succumbed to the sweet temptation.

His vision fogged over, he mindlessly undressed and crawled into bed. Time ceased to mean anything as he cried out Christine's name over and over into the pillow, knowing he would not get a reply. In time, his elegy slowly died out to anguished whispers as he finally drifted off to sleep.


	2. Impasse

**Author's note: The ending quote is from the movie _Summer Palace_. No, no, don't read it now! Start from the beginning...I also took a tiny detail from _Phantom _by Susan Kay: In the movie it's never revealed what song Erik sang to Christine when he first made himself known as the Angel of Music to her, but in _Phantom _it's described as an old heathen song, if I'm right. I don't have my copy of the book with me right now, so I can't check...but hopefully you get the idea. Hope you enjoy, and please review if possible, I'd really appreciate it =]**

* * *

"_After all is said and done, the only thing that can be given is silence…"_

**Chapter Two: Impasse**

The jolt of the carriage made him snap his head back up and open his eyes for the hundredth time. Predictably, he had barely slept the previous night. When the gods were merciful and did grant him sleep, they were full of restless dreams. One that visited him at intervals throughout the night was one of he and Christine on a mountaintop, whispering adorations of love to one another as a slight breeze blew. Just after they exchanged a kiss that filled him with a warm fire, a great wind had suddenly unfurled a pair of brilliant wings attached to Christine's back. He cried out her name as she was swept away like a bird, a faint call of farewell issuing from her lips. He reached out in vain for her, and the next moment found himself falling off the clifflike precipice, unable to do anything but watch Christine floating further and further away…from this angle, it looked like she was flying to heaven…

The night had lasted forever, and he had woken up weeping more than once.

He awoke before dawn, finding himself facing the back door of his manor. He hadn't sleepwalked since his youth, and subsequently spent the rest of the pre-dawn pacing back and forth before the door, unable to calm down, afraid to think.

Now his lack of sleep from the night before was catching up to him. He blinked hard and rubbed his eyes, gazing out the window at the passing landscape without seeing it. Maintaining a calm façade for the outside world was an agonizing effort that was draining all of his energy. If society did not condemn him for it, he would have flown into a passion. But no, he could not scream until his throat was hoarse, nor break the blasted carriage that went too slowly into pieces with his bare hands. He could do nothing but sit there quietly pretending that all was well in his world. It was absolute torture.

If only he could sleep, time would pass by more quickly. But he feared the dreams, the honeyed anguish and the sadness, and refrained from nodding off. He gazed at the cushioned seat opposite him, memorizing the pattern of the fabric. Roses. He stared and stared, gradually falling into a numb stupor as the carriage rocked in a rhythmic motion, carrying him ever closer to his destination: The de Chagny manor.

"We have arrived, monsieur!" The cheery voice of the footman broke through the walls of his mind. He blinked, wrenching his eyes away from the pink bloom he had been staring at for the past two hours, and winced as he glanced at the sky outside the door the footman was holding open for him. Even though it was cloudy, the carriage had been uncommonly dark, with only a dim lamp to light the interior. With difficulty and not much grace, he stepped down from the carriage.

"Thank you," he said, handing a bag of coins into the footman's eager hands. "Wait for me here."

He turned to face the impressive de Chagny manor as it dominated the skyline before him. A feeling of choking suffocation settled over him. This was where his former enemy now lived, and this was where his former love now lay in eternal rest. His one hate and his one love. It was all he could do not to run away, to escape the cruel truth that suffused the manor in front of him, taunting him with its magnificent strength.

The mask on his face seemed to become heavier, but he did not remove it as he walked up to the carved mahogany doors alone. Grasping the doorknocker, he rapped it three times, hearing them echo inside the great mansion.

A moment passed before he heard soft, faltering footfalls and the click of the bolt being slid back.

The door slid open to reveal an aged, balding man with a hastily concealed expression of utter grief on his face. Erik's eyebrows lifted of their own accord as he took in the sight of the man, who was not dressed in the attire of a butler. With a spark of realization, he knew that this must be Raoul, the Vicomte himself. But how he had changed! Although only a handful of decades had passed, he appeared to have aged a century. Deep lines had carved themselves into his face and what was left of his hair was shot with heavy streaks of gray and even white. Erik had ceased to regard Raoul as an enemy, but now, with him looking so old and despondent in front of him, a faint thread of pity wound itself around his heart. He knew instinctively that Raoul had not looked this old before Christine's death. The effect of her death had completely devastated him, while Erik had gotten away with a mere several hours of sad dreams and weeping.

They regarded each other for a few moments, unable to speak.

"Erik?" Raoul ventured, looking at him. Even his voice sounded aged and very tired.

"I'm afraid so," he replied dryly, doing his best to keep his voice even. "I'm the only one in France who walks around with a mask on, _oui?_"

Raoul swallowed and nodded once in agreement, taking in the fine cut of Erik's suit and cape. "You're doing well, I see. I'm glad that my letter found you not lacking for wealth."

Erik nodded. "The same to you. The title of Vicomte has certainly kept you financially secure, if not thriving."

A short pause. "Would you…like to see her?" Raoul asked, his voice breaking slightly as he opened the heavy door wider.

"I would," Erik replied, stepping over the threshold into the expansive foyer.

Raoul closed and locked the door, giving Erik time to observe the slight stoop of his back, his shuffling gait. He had aged much more rapidly than Erik would have thought was possible.

"She is…upstairs," he said, turning away from the door and gesturing to the second floor. "Come with me."

The two men ascended the sweeping staircase slowly, each lost in their own thoughts. Erik trailed behind Raoul, faintly marveling at how circumstances had changed. In the wake of Christine's death, he and Raoul had ceased to be enemies. Indeed, they had ceased to be anything. Try as they might, they had only found themselves mere pawns in the game of Fate.

_So what are we now? Only powerless men? Former enemies defeated by circumstances we cannot understand?_ Erik sighed as the resounding answer in the positive rang in his head.

"I have dismissed the servants to their quarters," Raoul said quietly as they neared the top of the staircase. "They, too, mourn Christine. She was a jewel of a woman."

Both men's throats closed off at old memories of Christine, and they completed the journey to Christine's room in a heavy silence.

The sound of the door handle turning was loud in the silent hallway as Raoul turned it.

"She is inside," he said succinctly, pushing the door open.

It took all the courage Erik could dredge up from his heart to step into the room where Christine had lived and died. He did not miss the pale red curtains nor the wallpaper pattern of lush roses on a bed of diamonds. He swallowed hard. Little signs, little symbols…the deeper meaning behind them was not lost on him.

His eyes flew to the inert body lying on the magnificent bed, and at that moment his carefully constructed walls of composure started to viciously tumble down into frightening nothingness.

"Christ—" He could not complete the word. If he did, he knew that all sense of decency would be lost.

He hurried over to her side and took her hand. The skin was smooth and unmarred, but shockingly cold. His eyes passed over her deep purple dress to rest on her face. Beautiful Christine…she had barely aged, and looked nothing short of breathtaking. Her skin was still supple, her eyelashes full and curled. She had kept her hair long, the dark curls without a single strand of silver as they tumbled around her diminutive body. Her sweet lips were upturned slightly in a small smile, and a memory shoved itself into Erik's mind: Christine sleeping soundly and sweetly in his bed, looking just as peaceful as she did now in death…

"Christine…" he choked out, finally allowing the long-buried tears to surface. He ceased to remember Raoul's presence as tears cascaded down his cheeks.

"I have already shed my tears, all that could be shed," Raoul said very quietly from the door. "I shall leave you in peace." His statement was accompanied by the door shutting softly.

Erik took off his mask and threw it across the room as he knelt down at Christine's side sobbing, the remaining barriers against his agony gone. The very sight of her still body made the sorrow a thousand times worse than what he had to endure last night. Clutching her hand, he kissed the cold skin fervently as he wept, tears coursing down his cheeks as he mourned the one true love of his life, his muse and his protégée, the woman that he could never have.

He wept and wept, laying his head down on the sheets for an immeasurable time until he was able to subdue himself. The soft clicking sound of the second hand on the wall clock rang in his ears. It seemed to him a mockery, emphasizing each precious second, and how while Erik had some vague amount of time left on this earth, Christine now had none…

The seconds ticked by, harmless. Then, leaning over her, he kissed her forehead, her cheek, and very gently, her lips.

"I never had the chance to kiss you of my own free will," he whispered, the tears still streaming silently down his face as he continued holding her hand. "This will be my one and only chance to offer you a kiss of my own. You gave me so much, and in the short time we had, as much as you destroyed me, you also made me rise when all else was lost. I thank you…for all of that. I lo—" his throat stung at the words that were impossible to say. He pushed on through the pain. "I love you more than I can ever possibly explain, and I was not prepared to let you go like this." He gently stroked her smooth cheek. "You are still so beautiful, as beautiful as the young woman I fell in love with. I wish that we could have seen each other during those years apart, but we could not do such a thing while you were married. I'm so glad that Raoul gave me a chance to come and say goodbye to you. I hope that any pain you held in your life is gone, and that you are happy and at peace. In the wake of death I can do so little to honor you, but I can sing for you. One last time."

He took a deep breath to calm himself as much as possible before beginning a Swedish song. It was a very old song of mourning and loss that he had picked up during his travels in the Gypsy fair, one that had managed to touch his heart through the walls he had built up around himself to escape the torture he had undergone at the time. He knew that Christine would appreciate a song sung in the language of her homeland after hearing and speaking French for decades. Their bond had begun with an old song. It only made sense that an old song would conclude the cycle forever. It felt like next to nothing, but it was all that he could give Christine, at the end of it all…

He was helpless to stop the memories from coming back to him yet another time, more vivid than ever before. Even as the tears started falling thickly again, he never stopped singing. He had almost forgotten the fact that singing in the midst of feeling a strong emotion can act as a catharsis and often drastically improves the quality of the singing. With all his heart, he embraced the memories, cradling them to his soul as he continued with the song, his voice now soaring. Though decades had passed, his voice had never lost its overwhelming tenderness and power.

In his memories, Christine was now a bright shape, brilliantly radiant in her youth and beauty. Reliving the kisses they had shared that night in the cellars of the Opera Populaire, a bright light had passed from her to him, leaving him with a tiny flame that had lit up the perpetual darkness within him.

_She saved me that night, without either of us ever realizing_, Erik realized.

He finished the song and stood up from his kneel, his legs protesting from the cramps. Still holding Christine's hand, he looked down at her peaceful face. When all was said and done, the only thing that could be given was silence. Leaning down, he kissed her again.

"Thank you," he whispered reverently. Lovingly, he gently caressed her cheek before gathering his mask and leaving the room.

Raoul was outside in the hallway. This time he was not so quick to put up a face of relative calm, and Erik saw the hint of transparent grief on his lined face.

"You…have a beautiful voice," Raoul managed.

Erik inclined his head. "So I've been told." He hesitated before reaching into his coat and pulling out a small box. He opened it to reveal the ring that Christine had given him decades ago. Through the years, the gold band studded with brilliant diamonds had not lost its soft luster and the invisible, bonding promise that came with it. He ran a fingertip over it before handing it to Raoul.

"This is the engagement ring you once gave her, and which she gave to me as a memento of her. Perhaps it is wrong for me to request such a thing, but I would like you to bury this with her. I feel that she would have wanted it that way."

Raoul took it with a nod, and Erik set off down the hallway.

"You will not attend the funeral?"

Erik turned around, having just made up his mind. "No," he replied quietly. "It would be much too painful."

He was about to continue on his way when Raoul spoke again.

"So where does this leave us?" he asked, looking up from the ring he was contemplating.

"Like you said, Monsieur le Vicomte," Erik answered. "Rivals no longer. Only mere men."

He turned his back on Raoul and walked out of the de Chagny manor, placing his mask back on his face as he stepped outside into the stormy world.

* * *

"_Whether there is freedom and love or not, in death everyone is equal. I hope that death is not your end. You adored the light, so you will never fear the darkness."_


End file.
